


Just A Slip

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Collaboration, Established Relationship, Feral Behavior, Frotting, Halloween Prompts, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Vampire!John, Vampires, Werewolf!Sherock, Werewolves, artwork, reapersun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: Halloween Prompt from @capaow: Johnlock. I always see Sherlock as the vampire and John as the werewolf. Can we see something with John as the vampire and Sherlock as the werewolf?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @Jinglebellfic for the beta :)

The moon was beautiful. It was full, hanging like a bright silver disk just above the edge of the trees, and it was easy to imagine the Lady looking down on the dark Earth below, seeing everything, even sensing the still forms of the hunted, frozen in the deepest shadows. A slight smile curved Sherlock's lips as he looked up between the branches.

The transformation was quick, smooth and just the slightest bit pleasurable.

Sherlock pawed the ground, lifting the dirt and inhaling with several deep huffs of breath. He wasn't bulky or powerful; he was swift, sleek and darkly beautiful. His power came from his mind; he made for a cunning adversary. When he was a pup the other pack cubs had called him trickster. 'He didn't fight fair' they cried to their nursemaids, pawing a torn ear or bloodied snout. Mycroft had eyed him carefully, but he had never been punished for his unconventionality.

He bared his teeth in a grin at the memory.

Sherlock was finely muscled and lean. His coat was glossy and curled. Dark but not a true black, a hint of brown in his fur at the edges and he blended into the night as easily as the stars.

Listening, he stilled. He had taken two trains and walked for nearly three kilometers to indulge this need, and he couldn't afford to be scented or seen. He had to soothe the impatience of his other side.

It affected how he treated John. And that was unacceptable.

He started at a light pace. It had been so long since his last full transformation he needed to familiarize with the body once more. The learning curve was quick, and within minutes he was loping along at a good clip, running on instinct. He ducked and swerved and wheeled around logs and rocks like he had always known they were there. The wolf in his Mind Palace howled and Sherlock humored it, lifting his head he howled along.

It wasn't long before he came upon what he had come to do. He slowed his pace as he scented the air. A burrow of hares was close. He huffed the ground, pawing, scenting. Always scenting. He lowered his body, ears flat, and he waited.

 

* * *

 

 

The longer John stared, wordlessly, the more Sherlock grew despondent, heart sinking with every passing second.

“You’ve… I’m sorry, what?” John asked again and Sherlock shuffled nervously in the kitchen, resting a hand against the box.

“It’s a hare,” he repeated quietly, willing patience into his tone, even as his anxiety compounded as John stared at him incredulously. “I thought, you and I, we could…”

“Could _what_ , Sherlock?” John took a step back, yellow eyes flashing in quickly building agitation. “You are not implying what I think you’re implying.”

Sherlock said nothing and John crossed his arms, shaking his head in disbelief. “We’re not killing… Sherlock,” the look of baffled disappointment coming from John was unbearable. He had to turn away, fiddling with material of the box, peeling down a stray strip of wood. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I’m aware.” His tone was dismissive, hiding any hint of hurt. He peeled down another strip of the box, feeling the prey animal inside skitter.

“I’m just,” John unfolded his arms, pale-golden eyes searching Sherlock’s in mild irritation. “I don’t feed from living things anymore, Sherlock. I’ve told you. I’ve made it clear, since before I’d even met you, I don’t harm others, person or animal. I’ve told you, all those years I was—”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t _know_.” John interrupted harshly, and Sherlock flinched at the tone. “You’ve no idea how many decades, well before you or your pack even existed, I spent being cruel. I was dangerous. Angry. I was,” John stopped, eyes flicking to the nearest wall, as if reconsidering his next word. “I was lonely.” He decided simply. “Loneliness can make one cruel. And I’ve spent years trying to do good. Since being with you… we’ve been doing good work, together, haven’t we? Helping others? The work we do?”

“…Yes.”

“So no, Sherlock. We’re not, I’m not, not killing this, this rabbit—“

“It’s a hare.” Sherlock snapped suddenly, defensive and unable at all to control his own words or tone. “There’s a difference.”

“A hare, fine. Fine. Where did you even _find_ a shop that has live hares in London?”

Sherlock knew he should have had a response at the ready. Even if John was willing— idiot, why would you think he’d be willing?—he still would have asked such a question. His silence stretched far too long, and he felt an iron grip suddenly snap around his wrist and yank his hand away from the box. The animal gave another sharp jump, causing the container to wobble.

“Sherlock, you didn’t.”

He said nothing and the grip tightened.

“God damn you, we’ve talked about this!”

“I was careful.” Sherlock swiftly found this was the entirely wrong thing to say. John’s eyes flared an angry gold, and for the briefest of moments, the werewolf caught a glimpse of sharp fang touch across John’s lips.

“You act like I haven’t a clue what you’re experiencing. You act as if I couldn’t possibly understand the urges for violence. The urges to hurt things. Animals. People.” John’s voice hitched. The fact he had done this, put John in such a state... Sherlock averted his gaze.

“Christ, Sherlock, _look_ at me.”

Slowly, Sherlock let his gaze drift somewhere in the vicinity of John’s mouth. John had thin, expressive lips. John had sharp teeth behind those lips. He wanted to _see_.

“What else did you do?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Sherlock—“

“ _Nothing_ , John.” He snarled, feeling the wolf snap in equal irritation. “I captured the hare and came home. That was it. I promise. I—” _Say it, damn you._  "I'm sorry."

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” John’s hand released his arm, and went to Sherlock’s face. Out of instinct, he flinched but John’s cool hand settled across his cheek and his heart suddenly yearned for more. He wanted to nuzzle into that palm, lick John’s wrist in submission, curl into John’s chest and beg penance. “We agreed. When you have… urges... instincts… You talk to me. We settle it, together. We handle it. Temper it.”

“The instinct wasn’t to hurt anyone. That isn’t this.”

“Okay…” John said slowly. “Then what is ‘this’?”

 _I want to feed you._ Sherlock’s dark thought lurked low and swift, buried beneath so many other sharp feelings. _I want to fill you up. Lay my kill at your boots..._

“I love you. Do you hear me?” John’s cool palm against his heated face was such a soothing contrast, he lifted his eyes to finally meet John’s. “I. Love. _You_.”

“This is how I love you,” Sherlock shook as the words blurted horrifically out of his mouth. “This is how I can show you. This. _This_.” He couldn’t say it, didn’t know how to parse so many feelings in his chest into audible words.

“By bringing back a hare to what, kill?”

“You don’t need to kill it,” Sherlock could feel the wolf needling with impatience. “Feed from it. Even just a bit… let me watch…”

Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and shut his eyes, willing John to take his hand from his skin, wanting to sink into floorboards and disappear into the earth itself.

“You hunted for me.” There was a hint of something else in John’s tone now, an undercurrent of dawning understanding.

He nodded once and John’s hand moved from his face down to his neck and Sherlock felt his pulse beat soundly against the pads of John’s fingers.

“You feed from… from those _bags_ ,” he snarled at the word, lip curling in unconstrained disgust. “Feed from microwaved blood bags, from unworthy strangers and I…” Sherlock shook his head, not sure if he’d ever be able to explain it. “I need to _feed_ you. You don’t want me, you don’t want to feed from me, you—“

“You think I don’t _want_ to?” John asked suddenly, surprised. Something in John’s voice caught Sherlock’s attention and he opened his eyes, only to find himself situated with a lapful of assertive vampire as John moved with inhuman swiftness, pushing him towards the couch.

John was heavier than he looked, and stronger than him, when Sherlock wasn’t fully transformed. Sherlock keened and let himself be pressed back into the sticky leather of the sofa, throwing back his head to expose the milky column of his throat. The wolf in him, resting after their recent adventure, stirred. It was displeased at Sherlock’s enthusiastic show of submission. It was watching, now, hairs raising as the vampire straddled him so blatantly.

Sherlock’s excited panting was particularly conspicuous in contrast to John’s total absence of breath. “It has nothing to do with my not wanting you.”

“We’ve never discussed it… Other than you stating you don’t. Don’t feed from anyone. Anything.”

“Because I _don’t_ , Sherlock. But that doesn’t mean—“

“Feed from me, please…” It took more effort than he’d ever admit, as he tilted his head even further back, exposing every inch of vulnerable neck to the vampire. Eyes to the ceiling, he could feel John solid yet still as stone on his outstretched body. He said nothing, and Sherlock knew he would begin to ramble, anything to fill the void. “You can feed. You, if you want, y-you can bite…”

“Sherlock.” John cut him off softly as he smoothed the pad of his thumb along an extended cord in Sherlock’s neck, stroking down the tendon even as Sherlock gave a swift, involuntary swallow at the motion. “If I were to,” John continued quietly. “That is, it would be the first time I have. With a werewolf.”

 _First._ Sherlock inhaled sharply, the singular word spiraling into his gut, the thought he could be John’s first _anything_ at his age was immensely pleasurable. John mistook the sound for disapproval or perhaps even derision and his flinch was poorly disguised. Sherlock’s fingers tightened on John’s waist, drawing him down more firmly onto him as something wicked and possessive uncurled inside him. He cupped the back of John’s head and tried to draw him down to his neck, which was bared, had been bared, for absolutely _ages_ and why wasn’t John _biting_ him already?

“Alright, alright… easy there,” John’s chuckle vibrated against the column of Sherlock’s throat. Instead of soothing the beast, it only loosened its tether even more.

“Please…” He was cracking. Could feel it in his chest, breaking through his skin in heated flares even as ache burrowed into his bones. It hurt but he bore it, if it meant he could finally have this.

John had stilled, deceptively perceptive as always. He began to pull away, repelling, to look into the wolf’s eye. “Sherlock…”

“I’m fine. It’s fine,” Sherlock grit quietly, tugging at John’s belt to desperately distract, fingers gripping into grey-blonde hair even as he felt the other’s body tighten in resistance. “Please.”

“It’s not fine. Hey.” John’s voice was that hateful, softly-patient tone that all but shuttered the wolf’s vision to red. The urge to lash out, to transform and sink claw or fang into John’s flesh, was overwhelming.

“Shit, okay,” the vampire read him too easily, and began to shuffle them suddenly. Sherlock followed John’s guiding touch to move, shifting on the sofa and rearranging their bodies. John rolled and slipped beneath Sherlock, his back and neck now braced against the arm of the couch. They puzzled their bodies together, Sherlock’s chest pressing against John’s, body settling above between John’s thighs.

“Better?” John asked, a comfortable smile fluttering briefly across his face.

It eased the beast somewhat, the irritation at the show of earlier submission subsiding as Sherlock frowned down at John, feeling his arms begin to shake with anticipation. The tendons at the back of his jaw ached, the base of his ears throbbing with subtle pre-transformation shift.

“We both know it only hurts when you fight it,” John started, even as Sherlock begun to shake his head. “I don’t mind.”

“John—“

“You know I can take it. Take _you_.”

It wasn’t a challenge, but the wolf bared his teeth anyway. _Yes. Yes. Yes._

“You’d said ‘bite’, earlier…But it’s not so much…It’s more of a _slip_ ,” at the soft word, Sherlock startled as John suddenly surged up, fingers gripping Sherlock’s curled hair and pulling back in a practiced movement. Dry lips pressing to a patch of Sherlock’s pale skin. Without a word spoken, twin needles swiftly glided into his throat.

He could only inhale, body paralyzed, an involuntary groan releasing from his mouth as he felt John _pull_ at him, drinking, feeding… willing every part, every inhibition, to release in a great wave. The desire ran instantaneous up his spine, radiating along his shoulder blades as he felt that familiar and dangerous _shift_ crack through his entire frame. There was no longer pain as he allowed it, only pleasure. Pleasure as he pressed down upon his vampire,   

“John—“ Sherlock’s ears stretched up and back, that slow familiar burn which he knew heralded the appearance of the wolf’s ears and accompanying shaggy fur. He tried to focus his breathing, pause the transformation before it really got underway, but he felt the tingling in his fingertips and toes that indicated the growth of his claws. There was a searing burn at the base of his spine, budding tail trapped beneath belt and trousers, and then John’s hand tugged knowingly at his belt, just a bit, letting the damned tail loose.

Sherlock might have been more embarrassed, but for the distracting pull of John’s lips on his throat.

“You can… more… John,” He managed, even as his mind swam as if in a murky fog, head rolling as if drunk. Fingers ran through his hair, smoothing up his soft, triangular ears, as the vampire pressed lips in a kiss to the small wound on his throat. A tongue ran up, lapping at the trailing blood. “John. More.”

“Mm. No,” John’s eyes had narrowed, the soft, golden hue of an iris flaring. “I said enough. Enough… for now.” He ended almost as a soft concession. Sherlock watched, beyond fascinated, as John’s fangs retreated, the harsh gold of his eyes simmering to a soft, pale yellow.

John was warm. John was _warm_ , and it was because of Sherlock – because of his blood. His essence was inside John, filling him up. He was fed.

The wolf was content.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If this reads a bit familiar, I cannibalized a few tiny parts from an older (now deleted) Johnlock fic I had up once >.>;; Sorryy. I consider it up-cycling! :) 
> 
> [Reapersun ](http://www.reapersun.tumblr.com)and[ BelladonnaQ](http://www.belladonnaq.tumblr.com)


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